《Around the World In 80 Days》 CHAPTER1
by Jules Verne
Mr Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens,
the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable
members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting
attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except
that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled
Byron, - at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil
Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old.
Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg
was a Londoner. He was never seen on `Change, nor at the Bank, nor in
the counting-rooms of the `City'; no ships ever came into London docks
of which he was the owner; he had no public employment; he had never
been entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or Lincoln's
Inn, or Gray's Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of
Chancery, or in the Exchequer, or the Queen's Bench, or the Ecclesiastical
Courts. He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he a merchant or
a gentleman farmer. His namnds resting on his knees, his body straight,
his head erect; he was steadily watching a complicated clock which indicated
the hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days, the months, and the years.
At exactly half-past eleven Mr Fogg would, according to his daily habit,
quit Saville Row, and repair to the Reform.
A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where
Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared.
`The new servant,' said he.
A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.
`You are a Frenchman, I believe,' asked Phileas Fogg, `and your name
is John?'
`Jean, if monsieur pleases,' replied the newcomer, `Jean Passepartout,
a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for
going out of one business into another. I believe I'm honest, monsieur,
but, to be outspoken, I've had several trades. I've been an itinerant
singer, a circus - rider, ?·à lavish, nor, on the contrabà!!! ò?ee
??(á?when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on a rope like
Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to make better
use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted
at many a big fire. But I quitted France five years ago and, wishing
to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service as a valet here in
England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas
Fogg was the mostad he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to
know the world more familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he
did not appear to have an intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected,
with a few clear words, the thousand conjectures advanced by members
of the club as to lost and unheard-of travellers, pointing out the true
probabilities, and seeming as if gifted with a sort of second sight,
so often did events justify his predictions. He must have travelled
everywhere, at least in the spirit.
It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not absented himself
from London for many years. Those who were honoured by a better acquaintance
with him than the rest, declared that nobody could pretend to have ever
seen him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the papers and
playing whist. He often won at this game, which, as a silent one, harmonized
with his nature; but his winnings never went into his purse, being reserved
as a fund for his charities. Mr Fogg played, not to win, but for the
sake of playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, struggle with a
difficulty, yet a motionless, unwearying struggle, congenial to his
tastes.
Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children, which may
happen to the most honest people; either relatives or near friends,
which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his house in Saville
Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic sufficed to serve him.
He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed,
in the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other
members, much less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly
midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He never used the cosy chambers
which the Reform provides for its favoured members. He passed ten hours
out of the twenty-four in Saville Row, either ind@!!!
瘃 ??`@alk it was with a regular step
in the entrance hall with its mosaic flooring, or in the circular gallery
with its dome supported by twenty red porphyry Ionic columns, and illumined
by blue painted windows. When he breakfasted or dined all the resources
of the club - its kitchens and pantries, its buttery and dairy - aided
to crowd his table with their most succulent stores; he was served by
the gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles,
who proffered the viands in special porcelain, and on the finest linen;
club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port, and
his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly cooled
with ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes.
If to live in this style is to be eccentric, it must be confessed that
there is something good in eccentricity.
The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly comfortable.
The habits of its occupant were such as to demand but little from the
sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg required him to be almost superhumanly
prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October he had dismissed James
Forster, because that luckless youth had brought him shaving-water at
eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six; and he was awaiting
his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and half-past.
Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet close together
like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands resting on his knees,
his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily watching a complicated
clock which indicated the hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days,
the months, and the years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr Fogg would,
according to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair to the Reform.
A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where
Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared.
`The new servant,' said he.
A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.
`You are a Frenchman, I believe,' asked Phileas Fogg, `and your name
is John?'
`Jean, if monsieur pleases,' replied the newcomer, `Jean Passepartout,
a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for
going out of one business into another. I believe I'm honest, monsieur,
but, to be outspoken, I've had several trades. I've been an itinerant
singer, a circus - rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance
on a rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics,
so as to make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman
at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted France five
years ago and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service
as a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing
that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman
in the United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living
with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of Passepartout.'
`Passepartout suits me,' responded Mr Fogg. `You are well recommended
to me; I hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?'
`Yes, monsieur.'
`Good. What time is it?'
`Twenty - two minutes after eleven,' returned Passepartout, drawing
an enormous silver watch from the depths of his pocket.
`You are too slow,' said Mr Fogg.
`Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible--'
`You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it's enough to mention the
error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven, a.m.,
this Wednesday, October 2nd, you are in my service.'
Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head
with an automatic motion, and went off without a word.
Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new master
going out. He heard it shut again; it was his predecessor, James Forster,
departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone in the house in Saville
Row.
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